


Heavy in Your Arms

by luna_plath



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Fingerfucking, Frottage, Post - A Storm of Swords, Sexual Experimentation, Sexuality, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-20
Updated: 2012-06-20
Packaged: 2017-11-08 05:01:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/439425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luna_plath/pseuds/luna_plath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She wants to bury herself in him until they are one and the same.  Future fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heavy in Your Arms

**Author's Note:**

> Because no one ever fills the Arya/Jon prompts, and I’m hoping that if I get things started it will create a domino effect.

Her hair is still wet when she enters Jon’s chambers. It leaves a damp patch on the back of her tunic, a watermark trailing down her spine as Nymeria pads into the room behind her. Ghost is sleeping on a mat by the fire when her wolf curls around him, the two wolves huddling together for warmth, mimicking the behavior of their masters. Arya climbs into Jon’s bed, crawling underneath his sleeping furs and sliding close to him, her head tucked under his chin.

Jon’s mouth twitches in his sleep, his face softer and less harsh than when he’s awake. She traces the tips of her fingers over the scars that cover his eye, following his cheekbones and lightly mapping the contours of his lips, learning his face the same way she’d learned her own in the House of Black and White. For all her prodding he does not stir, and Arya thinks he must know it’s her in some way, otherwise he would have already woken.

She closes her eyes and exhales slowly, breathing in the smell of his skin, his hair, his wolf. Arya quickly falls asleep.

\----

Her body is tense and she finds herself half-awake several times, her legs shifting restlessly, unable to ignore the insistent presence of something low in her belly. She sighs and rolls over, bringing the front of her body toward Jon and his warmth. 

He remains asleep, his lower body flush with hers; a streak of curious embarrassment surges through her at their position. As part of her training in Braavos she had accompanied a courtesan, to learn of what happened between men and women, she’d been told, but Arya had never done anything with a man save kissing. Thought she’d seen more with the courtesan than what most ladies got up to in a lifetime, it had only left her with an persistent curiosity about her body that had never been satisfied. 

Shortly after what she thought was her thirteenth name day Arya had let a boy from Volantis kiss her, but his tongue had been too insistent and he had no real interest in sword fighting, so she hadn’t let him kiss her again. That had been two years ago, before she’d returned to Westeros.

Instead of shying away from Jon she lets her hips inch closer, thinking that maybe the contact will help to diminish the aching between her legs. If anything it increases it, emboldening her to slide one of her legs over his, rubbing herself along his thigh and seeking the delicious friction she’s failed to create on her own. That’s when Arya feels something she knows to stay away from, but her embarrassment is a whimper of a protest, fluttering in her periphery, less tangible than the living, curling heat that’s pooled in her gut. Jon is hard against her hip and the wrongness of the situation is only a flicker in her mind.

Arya bites her lower lip, her face pressed into his neck as she rocks against him. She does this a few times, experimentally testing her body against his, before Jon begins to wake, his voice raspy from sleep.

“Arya,” he says, slow to pull himself away from her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—“

“No,” she says, her arms wrapping around his neck, one hand snared in his sleep-tousled hair. “Stay like this.”

She can see the moment Jon begins to understand. He takes in the way her tunic is bunched underneath her breasts, the press of her center over his leg, and the heavy pull of her breathing. A pained expression comes over him, like he is considering something, his scarred hand firmly curling over her hip. “We _can’t_ , you know we can’t—“

“Just be still,” Arya huffs. She shuts her eyes and rubs her center against him through her layer of smallclothes, her spine arching so her chest is flush with his. Beneath the furs and through the strain of fabric she can feel how hard he is, but she dare not touch him. Arya feels like she’s been chasing the phantom tension inside her all evening and still relief eludes her, pitches her tight as a bowstring until the moment when Jon’s hand slips beneath her clothes and finds that secret place between her legs.

She stiffens, shudders, bites down on his shoulder while Jon presses tight circles around her nub, whispering against her skin.

“That’s my girl,” he says, holding her while tension wracks her body, rolling through her with impossible speed. Jon kisses her cheek, the corner of her mouth, his lips brushing her neck while his fingers work against her. “That’s it. You’re there, Arya. You’re there.”

She feels herself pulsing from the inside, contracting around nothing while Jon brings her over with his fingers. A moan slips from her mouth and she can do nothing to conceal her reaction to him. Heat flushes along her spine while the last of her tremors slide through her, perfect and intense and paralyzing. Release had been unattainable until now, something she’d never experienced for herself despite all the times she’d pressed her hand against her mound or dipped her fingers inside herself. 

Rolling onto his back, Jon pulls Arya with him, letting her head pillow against his chest while he lightly traces her spine. She can feel his hardness against her hip but he makes no move to attend to it, dragging his fingers through her hair instead. A limp, easy relaxation spreads through her body and she can finally rest, knowing that she has him now, that the thing that’s happened between them will surely stir again. Arya knows she will crawl into his arms when it does.

**fin**


End file.
